


The Coast of Maine

by paperchimes



Category: BioShock Infinite, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4192794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperchimes/pseuds/paperchimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are no heroes in the vale of tears. Only those who fight and those who have died fighting.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coast of Maine

**Author's Note:**

> [Under construction - In the process of re-writing]
> 
> The Maine Shatterdome was on its last legs. With Quantum Splice downed in its last battle and kaijus hatching one-by-one from a recently discovered egg cluster, the only thing standing between thousands of lives along the Atlantic and the daily kaiju onslaught was Songbird, one of the last analogue Mark 3's left.

The creeping clouds and the vast blue sky; the space beyond once held so many secrets. Robert could feel it all, stretching before him and above, dripping onto his being, digging deep into his broken armour like coagulating kaiju blood. How long had it been? Five years?  _Ten_? How long had passed since he and his sister exchanged stargazing for ranger training? How long had Father’s telescope idled in their storeroom before the entire mansion was engulfed in flames? How long had it been since the last human harboured wonder for the unknown?

He winced when he opened his eyes. The Sun was too bright.

Pain shot up his left shoulder like lightning, locking his arm in place. He dared not to move any further. Following the pain, numbness began to spread through his fingertips, engulfing his entire left side in cold, invisible flames. This was not good. The damage done had been far more severe than anticipated. And at the same time, it felt-- _Odd_ … he didn’t quite recall injuring himself at all. Then again, it was expected given that his–

His recollections were cut short by a piercing headache.

It was happening again. Like clockwork now, reality had begun its downward shift as his hallucinations quickly returned, fuelled by the just as rapid infection growing in his veins.

Robert watched as the blue sky rotted away to a hellish crimson red. The iron-laden scent of spilt blood swept over his mouth like a wave, smothering him, drowning him. Any happy memory, any comfort, died before it could reach him.

And there he was again. Once more. With his family when it was still whole, when his home was still a home, before the seven day War. And there he was again: pitiful,  _helpless_. His bones filled with concrete. No matter how frightened he was, no matter how loudly the beast’s footsteps echoed through the streets, no matter how every single cell in his body was screaming at him to  _move_  - just please,  _move_.

He could not.

Then, screams pierced the thick air and fluttering ash clouded his vision. And as cruelly as it came, the nightmare melted away, bleeding into nothing.

Just like the motionless body lying by his side.

_\---_

It would be weeks before he started responding to the doctors.

And months before he would be able to walk.

The attack had left him more damaged than most others; his internal circuitry spluttered to remain connected, memories with nowhere to go leaked into his dreams, the silences that hung in his bedroom were plagued with an orchestra of screeching metal only he was privy to. He felt his heart festering but nothing could take the rot away. There was nothing, no poison or narcotic that could grant him the relief he so desperately needed. He didn't  _need_  to forget, he didn't  _need_  forgiveness.

All he needed was to bring Rosalind back, and  _surely,_ surely the world would begin to correct itself.

 “ _Robert_ …?” a voice called out from the darkness.

“Miss DeWitt,” he found himself releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. A familiar face swirled into view. “Miss DeWitt,” he echoed, more composed this time, greeting her with underlying warmth

His reply had been so unnaturally quick, it stunned the nurse that had been lingering by his side. Elizabeth took no notice of her.

“I’ve told you before,” she smiled. “Just ‘Elizabeth’ is fine.”

“Elizabeth,” he amended in the exact same tone, though somehow it still felt incorrect. Was that really her name?

\---

She sighed through a weak smile. At least he’s more responsive now. Though, the nurse’s reaction hinted that this was not a common occurrence. And surely enough, a second later, the articulate and polite man she once knew would leave again, folding back into the deep walls of his damaged psyche. He hummed soft lullabies with his gaze wandering to the sterile white walls past Elizabeth’s shoulder.

She reached forward to palm the back of his cold, trembling hand, the action more self-reassurance than anything. Her chest throbbed with a heavy weight as she kept her eyes trained on his now blank stare.

This was good, she reminded herself. This was progress.

Just days ago, Robert Lutece, her mentor, had been wheeled into the Shatterdome’s medical ward wholly catatonic, unreceptive to the point of not being able to eat. Up till now, he was nourished purely through the IV. At least, this was what she assumed. Elizabeth tried to avoid looking at his arm whenever she visited, barely glancing at it out of the the corner of her eye. Not because of the intrusive needles and tubes which painted him more android than human, but because of his wounds. His wounds never stopped bleeding.

It was a disheartening sight, even more so than his dementia. It wouldn’t matter whether his bandages had been changed five minutes or several hours ago, perpetually a halo of deep red flared against his dressing like a permanent scar. To buy time, his doctors had resorted to frequent blood transfusions as they scuttled about in their labs, taking tissue samples here and centrifuging fluids there. ‘Chemicals in the kaiju’s claw’ they said. 'Extraterrestrial corrosive enzymes’ another theorised. The more time they gave them, the more their theories began to sound less and less coherent and more and more splendorous. It was as if they were coming up with these patchwork diagnoses more to reassure themselves that they understood more than they did.

Rosalind would have never approved of this.

Elizabeth bit her lip as she recalled the stoic photograph, mournfully framed with flowers and candles the day before. She forced a swallow to ease her nerves.

Rosalind would never approve of her brother being subjected to empty tests and psychological 'experiments’ whose results only proved absence instead of presence. The doctors called it “narrowing down” the possibilities. She would have called it a waste of time.

But regardless of what bogus theories they had of his poisoning, there was one fact that remained clear:

Whatever was inside him was not only eating away at his arm.  

But also his mind.

\---

They were giving him less than a month now.

A month.

Throughout the time Robert had been hospitalised, Booker hadn’t known what to expect. But it sure as hell hadn’t been this. Not so soon. Not when they still had so much to fight for. Not when kaiju sightings were rapidly rising in frequency and LOCCENT calls were threatening to come in faster than jaegers were being deployed. They had long ago abandoned refreshing the war clock, there was simply no point at this stage.

Heck, the big guys almost had to consider nuclear bombs to fight the onslaught.

 _No_. His grip tensed on his glass. It should never amount to that. Not again.

All they needed was more manpower. They needed people who could compensate Robert’s precision, his intuition. In times like these where petty numbers and calculated predictions no longer mattered and kaijus were coming in with days or hours in-between, they needed the Luteces stationed by the city coast to know that people would be safe. Their brand of 'prediction’ had always been superior. They knew and reacted to a kaiju’s attack before it even had time to land it.

Sometimes he wondered whether they were even human.

“ _…up till last week, five Jaeger pilots were killed-in-acti…_ " 

Booker poured another shot of deep amber into his glass, trying to drown out the news report in the background.

” _– breaching the Atlantic –_ “ the static continued.

” _– no coast safe –_ “ 

“–death toll rising to –”

 _Fuck_. The whole world was going to Hell.

He downed his glass.

Try as they may, they’ll need a miracle if they intend to keep this up. There was only so much that brute force and half-hour takedowns could do. The bastards were starting to get bigger and quicker, and if that hadn’t made matters worse, they recently found out that the ones that mowed down Mexico a few years back had left something behind. The little colony they left in Atlantic had already begun to hatch.

Humanity had been lucky that the little shits were waking up from their hibernation-gestation-whatever-the- _fuck_ -it-was one by one but really, how long does dumb luck last?

It wasn’t any better that the Maine Shatterdome was being denied the backup it’ll definitely need. The bigshots had used words like 'statistics’ and 'Category I’s’ and 'low probabilities’ to keep more Rangers around the Pacific. Booker understood where they were coming from, really he gets what they’re trying to say. But hell, they had an actual  _living_  nursery down there. And they didn't  _just_  have Category I’s, the most recent one had been a decent Cat II. Booker was no scientist but it really didn’t take one to notice that they were getting bigger the more time they gave them. And there’s no telling whether the little shits would be keeping up this overly-polite queue.

Songbird wouldn’t last sixty seconds if two decided to appear side-by-side.

Booker poured another glass, the entire time glaring at the shelves behind the bartender’s back. A dozen or so polaroids stared back at him.

A long time ago, before the world had decided to end a second time, they had started tacking up photographs of fallen Rangers as a sign of respect. As remembrance.

Now the pictures did nothing but rub salt into their wounds.

But it was too late to stop tradition, no matter how painful it got. Booker guessed life was like that. We all had habits that did nothing but hurt. Elizabeth would probably relate the photo-cluttered wall to his drinking 'problem’. He side-eyed the half-finished bottle by his arm. He wouldn’t deny it.

The alcohol helped; the pain didn’t burn as much this way.

Booker’s eyes then fell upon Rosalind’s photograph, the newest on the wall.

The words “one month” echoed through his foggy mind, like it did before.

One month…

One month until Robert’s photo goes up as well…

With that thought, he downed his whiskey in one searing swallow.

 _Goddammit._ God damn it all _._

He blinked back the tears from his eyes.

Though he wasn’t sure whether all of it had been from the alcohol. 

\---

_He was of sound mind regardless of what the doctors assumed._

_It was just the way he conveyed it that seemed wrong._

_He was fine, he was fine hewasfine hewasfine._

\---

Booker’s fears were confirmed. 

The most recent call had been of a Category Three. Set up was without ceremony, the neural handshake at its usual 100%, the drop was uneventful.

But by the time they were within radius of the kaiju’s estimated location, their interface began to blare a sinister bright red. From the other side of the intercom, the DeWitts could hear the feedback of warning alarms ringing from their end and a dozen feet frantically scuttling on lacquer. Booker exchanged glances with his co-pilot before the speakers crackled with the voice of their marshal. The tremor in her voice was masked but undeniable.

“We’ve confirmed additional activity from the Nest.” She allowed herself a moment before she uttered, “Another Kaiju has emerged.”

For a moment, those words were allowed to sit there, stagnating in the shallow air of their compod. The shrill whistle of steam and analogue pierced the silence between them. The DeWitts allowed the sounds to pass by them and echo between the pipes lining the walls behind them.

Before the gravity of the news sent a sharp jolt through Booker’s spine. Two kaijus.  

“What Category? Would Songbird be able to take it?” Elizabeth was first to react, her voice dropping an octave with a tone he had never heard her use, in Drift or out. Even her stance seemed to radiate confidence, lithe arms at-ready and curled into fists. Booker had to hand it to her, she was a magnificent actor. Through the Drift, he could hear her fear ringing as clearly as she heard his.

“Another Category 3, a twin,” a bespectacled woman beside their commanding officer replied.

“ETA?”

“It’s entered a current and is coming straight at you. Estimated…” The whirring of machinery and keyboards cushioned their silence. “Ten minutes.”

Ten minutes.

They knew what it meant almost immediately.

Quantum Splice had been de-commissioned, leaving the DeWitts the only Jaeger team in the Maine Shatterdome. It would take at least an hour for backup to arrive from the nearest hub. One full hour. The kaijus would take exactly the same amount of time to get to coast, given that they provide sufficient hindrance. The city could still make it if LOCCENT worked fast.

But would  _Songbird_?

“Ten minutes you say?” Booker spoke for the first time since the announcement. “Sounds like a new take-down record.”

“It’s doable,” Elizabeth reaffirmed.

“No. You two need to pull back, it’s,” their marshal paused, considering the thousands of lives she was referring to. “It’s too big of a risk.”  _To save all of them_. They didn’t hear her say it but her body language spoke for her.

"The bigger risk would be to withdraw without slicing off a few limbs, Commander,” Booker retorted. “One can kill hundreds a mile into coast, imagine what two could do at full girth.”

“That’s too big of a gamble, DeWitt, how can we be certain that you woul–”

“You can’t,” he cut her off. “You can’t guarantee that sort of thing.”

“All the more reason–“

“It’s a risk we have to take,” Booker was adamant.

Elizabeth gave her father a heavy look.

"We’re taking up precious time, Marshal, leave this to us,” she assured, fingers gliding over arbitrary numbers on her keypad. The screen reflected neon blues and reds on the surface of her helmet. “Please evacuate as much of the city as you can. We’ll make it out alive… I’ve calculated our chances at seventy percent.”

With finality, she then pressed the “disconnect” button, severing their communication line and plunging Songbird waist-deep into the Atlantic. The cables of the overhanging helicopters whiplashed around them from the momentum and, as if on cue, they departed, homebound for the Shatterdome.

Booker was still stunned but accepted her neural prompts regardless as, in tuned, they navigated their jaeger deeper into kaiju territory.

 _That doesn’t look like a seventy percent, Liz,_ he whispered through the Drift.

Elizabeth’s eyes were still on her screen, the bright red 0% glaring back at her.

_I know._

—

The plan was to tank it out until the other Jaeger team arrived. Defensive strategy, all shields up, only retaliate when wholly necessary, avoid directly striking, don’t give too many openings, strictly long-range weapons. Et cetera et cetera.

Looking back now, and then to their empty missile clips, Booker realised that it hadn’t been one of his best strategies, but when leading them away or provoking them into turning against each other hadn’t been successful, they were left with no other choice.

“Booker! Watch out!” out of Drift, Elizabeth’s voice penetrated the thick air.

A crash.

Booker couldn’t help but shout when a blinding shot through his nervous system, receptors erupting like fireworks in his lower abdomen. A quick glance to his left revealed Elizabeth bent-over as well, blindly clawing at her own invisible wound. The first Kaiju, which he had taken the liberty of naming One-Eye for ease of reference, had speared its tail right through five feet of solid titanium, penetrating through Songbird’s middle. Its namesake eyesocket bled bioluminescent fluids and missile shrapnel onto its appendage, digging deeper and deeper into their jaeger, until its tip emerged with a mind-numbing shatter through Songbird’s spine. Its pilots nearly passed out from shock.

With them weakened, the other kaiju – this one with both eyes intact – continued its onslaught, curved claws shredding mercilessly into their armour, prying away at their exoskeleton, unhindered by the blue flame of their elbow-rockets. The thick musk of burning flesh wafted into the sea breeze, a white column in the middle of the sea.

Deep in Songbird’s skull, a dozen alarms had begun to blare with deafening intensity. Bars on the screens rose and dropped with accelerating frequency. Pressure. Defences. Pain threshold. Their statistics could have been labelled anything at all and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Songbird was failing and the DeWitts were running dangerously low on time.

With a guttal cry, One-Eye snapped its tail out of the gaping wound, whiplashing through internal circuits and shorting out what little control they had on Songbird’s legs.

Its connection with its lower half completely severed, Songbird crumpled from the weight of its torso. The whole compod tilted, and then shook with such intensity as Elizabeth and Booker were plunged through the waves, determined claws sinking them deeper and deeper into the sea.

“Well _fuck_.”


End file.
